onsequences, by possessing the advantage of having
a clearing, without going through the usual processes of chopping and
burning; the first of which leaves the earth dotted, for many years,
with unsightly stumps, while the rains and snows do not wash out the
hues of the last for several seasons.

An exclamation betrayed the pleasure with which Mrs. Willoughby got her
first glimpse of the drained pond. It was when she had clambered to the
point of the rocks, where the stream began to tumble downward into the
valley below. A year had done a vast deal for the place. The few stumps
and stubs which had disfigured the basin when it was first laid bare,
had all been drawn by oxen, and burned. This left the entire surface of
the four hundred acres smooth and fit for the plough. The soil was the
deposit of centuries, and the inclination, from the woods to the
stream, was scarcely perceptible to the eye. In fact, it was barely
sufficient to drain the drippings of the winter's snows. The form of
the area was a little irregular; just enough so to be picturesque;
while the inequalities were surprisingly few and trifling. In a word,
nature had formed just such a spot as delights the husbandman's heart,
and placed it beneath a sun which, while its fierceness is relieved by
winters of frost and snow, had a power to bring out all its latent
resources.

Trees had been felled around the whole area, with the open spaces
filled by branches, in a way to form what is termed a brush fence. This
is not a sightly object, and the captain had ordered the line to be
drawn _within_ the woods, so that the visible boundaries of the
open land were the virgin forest itself. His men had protested against
this, a fence, however unseemly, being in their view an indispensable
accessory to civilization. But the captain's authority, if not his
better taste, prevailed; and the boundary of felled trees and brush was
completely concealed in the back-ground of woods. As yet, there was no
necessity for cross-fences, the whole open space lying in a single
field. One hundred acres were in winter wheat. As this grain had been
got in the previous autumn, it was now standing on the finest and
driest of the soil, giving an air of rich fertility to the whole basin.
Grass-seed had been sown along both banks of the stream, and its waters
were quietly flowing between two wide belts of fresh verdure, the young
plants having already started in that sheltered receptacle of th